Honeybee
by mkaz
Summary: A sequel to the classic episode "Miniature." Myra Russell's brother Charlie disappeared without a trace, leaving a hole in her life and no hope of finding him. But Charlie doesn't want to return; he's found his paradise. Or has he? A mysterious woman offers to help Myra get her brother back-while having her own motives for getting involved.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _The Twilight Zone_ is the work of Rod Serling, with the episode this story is based on having been written by Charles Beaumont. I have no claim on either of these entities and am writing purely for my own enjoyment.

* * *

Charlie listened carefully and attentively as Alice played the second movement of Mozart's Sonata Number 5 on her pianoforte. He was enjoying the small concert his beloved was giving for her friends (" _their_ friends now," she'd told him) and her family. He was especially proud that he was seated in the first row of the chairs that had been placed in the music room—not only because he had a perfect view of her sweet face as she concentrated on her playing, but because he was sitting between Alice's father and mother. Towards the end of the second movement, Alice's mother looked over at Charlie and smiled gently at him. The older woman looked very much like her daughter, with delicate features and a lovely face, but sharpened ever so slightly by the additional years. He returned the smile, just as gently.

Several minutes later, when Alice had completed the third and final movement, she stood up, gave a graceful curtsey, and the audience applauded her perfect performance. "Thank you, everyone," she told them, her voice soft and shy. "I was delighted to play for you. I hope you enjoyed our luncheon, and…" she looked at Charlie and smiled, "Charlie and I look forward to your presence at our wedding next Saturday."

The room applauded again, and Charlie found himself blushing and grinning right through his fervent clapping.

After their guests had left, Charlie joined Alice and her parents in the sitting room to enjoy cups of steaming hot tea and rest a bit. Alice's father, a hefty yet urbane gentleman, took the opportunity to compliment his daughter's performance once again. "Lovely, dearest, absolutely lovely," he remarked to her. "I am confident your new home will be filled with beauty when you sit down to play."

"Have you looked in on the progress of the new house's construction?" Alice's mother asked.

"I have. Yesterday afternoon. It's a majestic thing to behold. You two will be quite happy there. And it shall be ready prior to the wedding, most definitely."

Alice clasped Charlie's hand. "Father, Mother, thank you for all you've done for us. Charlie and I couldn't be more pleased. Isn't that right, dear?" Alice looked at him with her large doe eyes, hoping for confirmation, as she always did.

Charlie smiled down at her. "Yes, that's right. Everything will be perfect."

Everything was perfect, already. Charlie had never felt so complete, never had such a sense of belonging before. Alice was everything he'd hoped for: kind, serene, gentle, and understanding. With her, there were no pre-conceived expectations of what he was supposed to be or what he was supposed to do. In her world, there were no busy, crowded city streets, or dingy, ugly apartments, or thick, dense smells of gasoline and frying grease. Here, there were no loud, demanding bosses, or flashy, aggressive women, or overbearing mothers.

And he was happy, truly he was. But still…there was one thing—one small thing. He missed his sister. Myra had always loved him unconditionally, and he'd felt guilty about leaving her behind without any word. It bothered him a little to acknowledge that when he married, there would be no one from his family there. He would have loved to have had Myra there—Buddy he could do without, of course—although he understood why she couldn't. Charlie was sure that Myra missed him too, but if she'd only known where he'd gone and why he'd done what he did, she would have understood. He knew it.

Sometimes, when Charlie had a quiet moment to himself in this new world, he'd think of his sister. Did she worry about him? Was she still looking? Of course, no matter how many times Charlie's thoughts were set on this track, they always arrived at the same conclusion: Myra would be fine. She had her job and her husband and her friends, and perhaps a few children soon to make her life full. She didn't need Charlie.

The two couples continued their conversation about the upcoming wedding for a few more minutes, and then there was a knock on the door. _Who could that be,_ everyone wondered to themselves. It was getting rather late for impromptu visitors. Frowning, Mr. Summers stood and went to the door, meeting Mary, their maid. "Go ahead, Mary. Open it," he instructed. Charlie and Alice looked at each other, then stood as well.

"Breedwell!" Charlie heard Mr. Summers exclaim in a not-too-pleased voice. Instantly he felt Alice's hand clench around his.

"Why is he here?" Mrs. Summers asked. Alice whimpered. Charlie felt his heart begin to race.

"Well, hello Copley, old friend!" an overly theatrical voice boomed. "All is well with you and your kin, I hope?"

"What business do you have here?"

"Ah, just wanted to pay my respects!" the visitor walked into the sitting room (Mr. Summers close at his heels), where Charlie, Alice, and her mother stood. It was the scoundrel Charlie had seen in the house earlier, when he was still in the outer world. He was vile and unctuous, with his greasy, slicked-back black hair, curled mustache, and tiny, weasel-like eyes. Breedwell set those eyes on Alice, and Charlie could feel a shudder go through her by way of their clasped hands.

"Alice, sweet Alice! I declare that you grow lovelier with each day!" Breedwell exclaimed. He reached out for her hand, only to have Charlie stand between them. "Mr. Summers a-a-asked you a ques-question," Charlie stuttered, trying desperately to look brave. "What business do you have here?"

Breedwell narrowed his eyes, seemingly trying to measure Charlie up. His swine-like face melted into a mocking smile. "And who is this? A new…servant, perhaps?"

"How dare you! This is my daughter's fiancée!" Mrs. Summers chided him.

The man's eyes seemed to darken for a moment, and Charlie felt an ice cold ribbon of fear replace the burning hot anger that had been running through his system. "Fiancée? Alice's fiancée? Ha! What nonsense!"

Alice emerged slightly from behind Charlie. "It's true. It's true, Edgar! I'm marrying Charlie! Now, go—please, just go!"

"Just a moment, Alice." Breedwell spun around, to face Mr. Summers. "Copley, old chap, pray tell me: do you remember the agreement we made two years ago, when you desperately tried to find an investor for that garment press you were developing? Do you recall, how nearly all of your peers told you it was a waste of time—nearly all, that is, except me? Would you be so good as to refresh my memory—refresh all of ours, actually—how much money did I provide to you?"

Mr. Summers took a deep breath. "Two hundred," he muttered.

"Oh yes! Of course. It was two hundred. How could I have forgotten?" Breedwell waved his cane around in that over-exaggerated manner of his, and for once in his life, Charlie had to do everything in his power to keep himself from punching the man in the face. "And in return for my show of good faith, what exactly was it that you promised to me? Hmm?"

Alice's father swallowed tightly, exchanged a miserable look with his wife, then replied, "That I would allow you to court my daughter, and if you asked for my blessing to marry her, I would give it."

"No!" Charlie cried out, wrapping his arms around Alice, who clung to him, trembling. "Father, please! Please make him leave!" she cried.

"It's all right, Alice dear," Mr. Summers assured her. "Mr. Breedwell, you rendered our agreement null and void when you burst into my home and assaulted my child. Thank heaven Charlie interrupted you, or who knows what you might have done?" Both Alice and her mother sobbed at the memory of this event.

Breedwell rolled his eyes casually at this accusation. "I harmed no one, Summers. Mere hysterics on sweet Alice's part. I can assure all of you, I take very good care of my…hmm…possessions." Breedwell's eyes took on a lecherous gleam as he surveyed Alice's body.

"You!" Charlie lunged at the man, feeling a fresh wave of rage flow through him. Alice's father caught him. "Now, Charlie, son. Self-control!" the older man soothed him. He turned to Breedwell. "Get out of my house, Breedwell! Or I might just let my soon to be son-in-law give you the thrashing you so richly deserve!"

"Hmph! Very well. I'll leave—for now." Breedwell started to stomp away, then stopped. "But a debt is a debt, Summers! And permitting Mr. Nobody from Nowhere to marry Alice won't help you. Remember that!" He quickly stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh no…no…" Alice clung to Charlie, crying. Charlie held her to him, trying to comfort her, but he felt empty—drained, somehow. It was as if he was walking on the moon and some of the gravity he was used to that held him down was gone. He was floating, but not in a good way.

"I…I'm sorry…but…I think I need to…" Charlie felt his knees start to buckle, but he felt Copley Summers' arms around him, keeping him up.

"Oh dear. Charlie, I think we should get you to bed. Mary!" Alice's father called. When the maid arrived, he ordered her to take Charlie's arm, while he held the other.

"Let me help!" Alice offered.

"No, dear. We need to get Charlie to his room. It wouldn't be proper," her mother gently warned her. Charlie lived in the Summers' home—what had been the dollhouse he'd observed in his own world. However, his room was on the far end of it—with several rooms between his and Alice's. Given Charlie's arrival into their world, the Summers understood, of course, that he had no material possessions, and no domicile of his own. He would live with them until he married their daughter and they relocated to their own home, but every precaution was taken to ensure that the two of them were not engaged in any activities required to be within the bounds of matrimony. In this particular case, however, Charlie couldn't help but be a little frustrated with this, even in his weakened state. He wanted Alice by his side, within his sight—especially with that brute Breedwell prowling around their home and family.

"Alice…need to make sure she's all right…" Charlie mumbled to Mr. Summers as he was placed upon the bed and covered with a sheet.

"Of course, my boy, of course," Mr. Summers reassured him with a smile. "You need to rest now."

"But…"

"She'll be fine. Worry not. Come Saturday, you and Alice shall be wed, and all shall be well."

Charlie smiled dreamily as Mary fluffed his pillow, and turned down the lamp. "Yes…Saturday…we will be wed…"

* * *

The street corner outside of the Summers' home was dark, quiet, and peaceful. Edgar Breedwell put a cigar to his lips and puffed at it thoughtfully while he stared up at the towering house with its many dimly lit windows. One by one, he watched as the lights were put out, until there was only one faithful lamp burning in the front. Finally. Everyone was done for the night.

A few minutes later, Edgar heard the front door open, and watched as the door slowly pushed open and a figure emerged. To his relief, it was Alice, light in her hand, coming up the cobblestone path.

"Hey," she greeted him casually, as she pushed the gate open.

"Hey yourself," he replied back, helping her to push the door back into place and lock it behind her. They walked slowly together—not venturing far from the house, just enough to be able to hold a private conversation.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long. Sorry if you were," she told him.

"Nah, wasn't long at all. Thanks again for sharing with me," he replied.

She waved it off. "Oh please. It was nothing. Plenty to spare. Besides, you would have done the same for me if the shoe were on the other foot."

"Oh yeah of course. I'll try to save you some when I get back so we're even."

"No, no. I don't want you to do that. You need to save every bit for yourself. You never know if you'll need it later." She leaned in to him and said in a low voice, "You know it's getting harder and harder now. It's not easy like it used to be."

His face grew sad in the moonlight. He knew exactly what she was talking about. "Yeah, I know." He put out the cigar he was smoking and tried to change the subject. "So how are things going with you and Charlie? Are you happy?"

She chuckled lightly. "The real question is, is _he_ happy? Yeah, he is. We are. It's been going real well for us. I think we'll make it to the very end, me and him."

"Of course you will. He's not missing his family, is he? You said he had an old mother and nothing else really, right? Or was it a brother he had, or something?"

"A sister. He actually compared me to her a little, at first! Ha! But no, he's accepted he's never going to see her again. She's married and has her own family, so no worries there."

"That's good. I think it's all coming together for you." He smiled at her.

"And it will for you too, don't worry. When do you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. I'm going alone."

"Alone? Are you sure?"

"I think I have a better chance of making a catch that way." He suddenly considered something. "I can put off my trip until after your wedding, if you want. You know, in case you need me to drum up some more—"

"No, no. I don't want you to do that. You need to take care of yourself. I can see it on you."

Edgar frowned as he imagined what he must have looked like, even in the darkness: tired, empty, depressed. At least, that's how he felt these days. "Yeah, I need to go. I just…I just don't want to be disappointed, you know?"

She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Patience. You know that's the key. Patience. It takes time. Look how long it took me to find Charlie, but it worked out, didn't it? It'll work out for you too."

He covered her hand with hers. "Thanks, kid. I'm gonna head off. Have a good time on Saturday, okay?"

"For sure! Good luck." She smiled and waved as he disappeared into the night, then returned to the dollhouse and shut the door behind her.

* * *

Myra couldn't sleep, but it didn't surprise her. She didn't sleep much these days—not since her brother disappeared without a trace. She went to bed at night, mainly to maintain the appearance of normalcy for her husband, but sleep didn't come. She'd lie there, watching the hours shift from one to the next on her bedside clock and listening to Buddy lightly snore next to her. By early morning her mind would finally be fatigued enough and would shut itself down for an hour or two, and then she'd be up again, getting Buddy out of bed, making his lunch and breakfast, and getting him out the door to his work.

At least she didn't have to worry about having to go to a job anymore. Her sleeplessness had affected her work at the real estate firm to such an extent that she couldn't be trusted any longer. She had become sloppy and careless: making errors in settlement sheets; filing listings in the wrong places; taking messages for the agent she supported, and then forgetting to give them to him. Finally Mr. Dandridge, the owner, sat her down and told her that while he was sympathetic to what had happened to her family (they all were, he'd made sure to add), she was costing the company time and money with the mistakes she was making.

"Take some time off, Myra," Mr. Dandridge told her. "Six months—a year if you need it. Your job will still be here when you get back. Give yourself some time to grieve. I'll be in touch."

Myra thanked her boss, left his office, and mechanically began to pack the things up at her desk. She could feel the other girls, and even some of the agents, staring at her while she worked. They all talked about her behind her back—she knew it. Some of them probably were laughing at her, but for the most part, they probably just pitied her…and Myra wasn't sure which was worse. Harriet Gunderson had told the rest of them about the disastrous date she'd had with Charlie, and getting stood up by him the night be disappeared. Harriet didn't talk to Myra anymore, just threw her looks of regret every now and then. Myra didn't blame her for feeling lousy about it—she would have too, if it had been her—but it just seemed to twist the knife deeper into the wound.

She said her goodbyes, gave her badge back to Wilma, the receptionist, and headed out the door to walk the three blocks back to her apartment. Mr. Dandridge had framed her ousting as "time off," but Myra had a feeling he was giving her the boot while keeping his conscience as unburdened as possible. She wasn't important to the company; he'd find another girl who could do her job in less than a week.

As she was walking up Strawbridge Avenue, holding up the heavy cardboard box and feeling the cold ache of exhaustion in her brain, something else occurred to her—something Mr. Dandridge had said. _Give yourself some time to grieve._

Grieving indicated that there was something lost—something that couldn't be reclaimed. Is that what Mr. Dandridge believed? Was that what everyone believed? When her co-workers, friends, and neighbors had held her hands and shaken their heads, were they doing so because they thought that Charlie was never coming back? But how could they be so sure about that? What the hell did any of them know? The anger Myra felt about this had renewed her strength and she powered through the last block of her walk until she was finally home. To hell with them! Charlie wasn't dead. There was no evidence that he was dead, so he had to be alive! The police had said so themselves that there was no indication of foul play—though, admittedly, they had very little to go on. No one had come forward with any information, any sightings of him. He'd just seemed to vanish into thin air.

That was what made the last two months so difficult—knowing nothing at all. That, and the guilt.

Myra had pushed Charlie too hard. She'd been too domineering and overbearing with him; it wasn't as if he didn't already have to deal with that from their mother. Myra should have been the voice of reason, trying to mediate between Mama and Charlie, and being gentler with him. She'd forced him to go on that date with Harriet, knowing full well she wasn't right for him. She just thought—she'd hoped—that perhaps Harriet would be a springboard for Charlie, helping him to build his confidence in interacting with the opposite sex so that when the right girl came along, he would be ready. He'd finally marry and move out and have a life of his own. Myra only wanted the best for her big brother.

But instead of helping him to blossom, she'd only succeeded in making him retreat even farther into that imaginary world he'd created. His obsession with that dollhouse in the museum overwhelmed his common sense. And that doctor! He'd been so sure he'd cured Charlie. The lousy quack. Myra was sure that if they'd just brought Charlie to her place, let him stay with her for the weekend so they could sit down and really talk things out, she would have been able to bring him back to reality. But no—they had him committed like he was some of lunatic, and that was the last straw. Myra knew what Charlie had been thinking: _what do I have to lose? They think I'm crazy. I might as well leave._

But where in heaven's name had he gone? That question she always came back to stuck in her belly like a rusty knife, and this time it forced her out of bed. Myra stood, putting on her slippers and robe, pausing only when Buddy shifted and mumbled something unintelligible, then grew quiet again. She made her way to the kitchen and turned on the light, then sat down at the dining room table and took a cigarette that was sitting in a pack in a black wooden bowl in the middle. She breathed out the smoke, watching it drift upwards and dissipate into the open air. _There one moment, gone the next_ , she mused.

She was nearly finished with the first cigarette and about to move to another when the phone rang. She crinkled her nose at it, wondering who on earth would be calling at such an ungodly hour. Maybe it was a fluke. But then she quickly sprung up and jogged to the living room when it rang another time. In spite of the fact that Buddy slept like the dead, Myra didn't want to risk waking him.

"Hello?" she asked in a hoarse whispering voice that sounded more like a demand than a question.

"Is this Mrs. Russell? Mrs. Myra Russell?" The voice on the other end was a woman's, and while it sounded polite, it was also very firm. Myra was reminded of the nuns who taught at the grammar school she'd gone to as a girl.

"Yes, it is," Myra replied.

"Mrs. Russell, my name is Melissa Rye. I apologize for the timing of my call, but it was imperative that I spoke to you as soon as possible. It concerns your brother, Mr. Charlie Parkes."

Myra felt her heart thrumming in her ears. The hand that held the receiver shook. "Charlie? What about him? Where is he?"

There was a pause. "I don't know for certain, but I have my suspicions. I believe I know how he was taken, and—I'm sorry to tell you this—I believe he is in great danger."


	2. Chapter 2

When Charlie opened his eyes, it was to near-darkness. It was cool, colder than his old room usually was. He remembered quickly that he wasn't in his old room, or in his mother's home. He was in the townhouse, and it wasn't quite as warm as the world he came from.

Still, the quilt he'd been wrapped in was soft and provided some warmth, and he was comfortable. But he couldn't go back to sleep. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but he assumed it was now the middle of the night. How did he get there? What was the last thing he'd done? Charlie tried to remember.

But remembering made his head ache. Slowly…slowly. He breathed in deeply, and little by little, the memories returned. He'd been sitting with Alice and her parents…they were talking about the wedding…and then they were interrupted by that brute Breedwell—

Charlie sat bolt upright and threw off the covers. Alice! Where was she? What did that criminal do?

But wait. No, he left. Mr. Summers threw him out. And then…and then there was darkness. And sleep.

Charlie found a robe hanging from the wardrobe in his room and wrapped it about him, then walked to the door. He put his hand on the knob to turn it, then stopped. He'd never explored the dollhouse at night. He'd never explored the dollhouse at all – no!

Alice told him; he wasn't supposed to refer to her home as a "dollhouse"; it was her home, and she wasn't a doll.

"Please, darling," she'd pleaded, her blue eyes wide and searching. "I am not a doll. Please just forget that part of our meeting. I am a lady, and I live in a townhouse."

And so it was a townhouse, yes, but Charlie had never explored it on his own. He'd gone in the places where Alice and her parents were, when they went there, but never alone. But should he do this? He looked back, at the bed. He wasn't sleepy. What harm could there be in looking around?

He turned the knob, opening the door very carefully and peering out into the hallway. It was dark, save for a little bit of illumination from the moonlight streaming in through the window at the far end. He crept out, walking carefully down the hallway and down the stairs. The second to last step creaked under his foot, and he froze, looking around. But no one was there. Charlie got to the main floor, passing the Summers' enormous sky blue china vase, sitting on a pedestal in the shadows. Those shadows changed direction, moving from east to west. Charlie didn't notice.

He wasn't sure where to go exactly. The kitchen, perhaps? He wasn't hungry. Outside? He didn't want to get cold. He stood in the bluish dark, feeling lonely. He wished Alice was with him. He wished he could go to her room, sit with her perhaps. Maybe slip beneath the covers and hold her in his arms. The thought made his mouth feel slightly dry, and his skin hot. But no, he couldn't. It wasn't right. He didn't even want to think those thoughts until they were married.

Charlie finally decided to go to the library. Perhaps he'd find a book he liked and read a bit. The room was dim, but there was just enough light that he could find the oil lamp, sitting on the writing desk, and light the wick with the matches lying nearby. Instantly the room was suffused with a warm, orange glow from the flame. Charlie looked around, at the shelves stacked neatly with books, and chose a deep maroon bound text from one of them. He flipped open the book, thumbing through the pages, but for some reason, he wasn't able to read the words. The book appeared to be written in English, but Charlie had trouble deciphering the letters and then pulling them together into cohesive words his mind could comprehend. He tried looking at two other books on other shelves and had the same result.

Frustrated, he set the books on top of the others on the shelf and walked around the room, trying to find something else to look at. There was a cabinet in a far corner, away from the moonlight the window provided. He walked over to it and gripped the small metal handle of the door, and with a sharp pull, the door swung open. The first shelves sat near Charlie's torso and chest and were empty, but the top shelf was slightly above his head and appeared to have a large black book or a box on it. Lifting himself up onto his tiptoes, he pulled the object from the shelf. Whatever it was, it seemed to be quite heavy, and Charlie actually staggered backward from its dense heft and had to hold tight to it. Fortunately, he didn't make any noise or drop the object, so the peace of the household remained intact.

Turning himself around, Charlie heaved the object—a wide, square, velvet box about 14 inches wide and 3 inches deep—over to the writing desk. He ran his hands over it. In spite of the fact that the box appeared to be covered in velvet, the material didn't feel like what he was expecting—it felt cool and sort of wet under his fingertips. He wasn't sure if there was something inside, or if the box was solid. He felt around the edges and the middle of the box, until he felt something on the top of it shift, and what was most likely the lid was able to be pulled away.

Inside the box were sheets of paper with what appeared to be water color paintings. Charlie took one of the sheets out, and held it to the light of the oil lamp. The sheet of paper, like the box, had a strange feeling to it—it felt like very thin metal, like tin or aluminum. The picture on the sheet was even stranger. It was some sort of barren wasteland, draped in shades of sickening gray and purple. There were rocks, hills, and mountains, but no visible trees or other plants. As Charlie watched, he noticed that it seemed he was starting to see air currents moving over the mountains, distorting the face of the rocks. Then he saw something crawling over one of one of rocks, some sort of cross between a crab and a centipede, with multiple, moving legs. The insect paused for a moment, sending its feelers into the air, and suddenly, without warning, a huge fissure opened in the rock, underneath the insect, and it dropped into the fissure of the rock. The rock's surface rolled and undulated, and Charlie eventually realized that he was watching the rock consume and digest the insect.

He shuddered and threw the paper aside. He should have just walked—run—away, but he couldn't. Instead, he picked up another sheet and held it up to the light. This one was less disturbing, fortunately. It appeared to be an underwater image, based on the loosely formed bubbles and the bending of light. There were long, thin, bluish-white cylinders in the water, floating, moving. The cylinders had very tiny hairs on them, it appeared, and Charlie watched those little hairs become entangled with the hairs of another cylinder floating nearby. These two cylinders would be thrust together, and then their outer layers seemed to merge, little by little, until the two became one. This action seemed to happen several times with others of the cylinders, but occasionally a cylinder sent out its hairs to another cylinder, only to be repelled. There were a few rejected cylinders that eventually paired with different ones, and there were also some that tried and tried again to merge with other cylinders, but were continually rebuffed.

Charlie let out a sort of coughing, grunting noise, not knowing what to make of what we was looking at. He put this second sheet down and put up yet another. This sheet was black, completely black. But there was a small, white square in the upper left hand corner. It started to move down the sheet, then it seemed to unfold into an octagon. Then it twisted into an oval, and then broke apart into triangles—many, many triangles that overwhelmed the piece of paper. They started to layer on top of each other, more and more and more. Some of the triangles were started turning into squares, but there was so much on the paper, that the surface had now become a smooth, matte white color. And then, a few seconds later, a black square started to move down the paper again, and the process began once more—but in inverted colors. Charlie set the sheet of paper down.

Mrs. Summers was standing there.

The light of the oil lamp just barely illuminated her face, but what Charlie did see frightened him. It was cold, grim. He'd never seen her look that way. He startled, jumping back slightly with a yelp.

"Charlie." Alice's mother said in a stern, icy voice.

"Oh! Mrs. Summers!" Charlie managed to say. Her face frightened him. He felt like a little boy again, caught by his mother or a teacher, or some older female for doing something bad.

"You shouldn't be here, Charlie."

"I was…"

Suddenly she thrust her hand, open palmed, into his face. "You should be in bed."

…and then the morning sun was shining brightly into Charlie's bedroom window, and Mary was lighting a fire to warm the room while he sipped his tea and read the newspaper she brought him.

* * *

Buddy finished the last of his coffee and took another bite of his eggs. He didn't really like the way Myra had cooked them that morning—the yolks were hard when she knew full well he liked them runny—but after what she'd been through lately, he didn't want to be a jerk about little, dumb things. He looked over at her, standing next to the stove, biting on the knuckle of her right index finger and staring off into space. "Hey, babe?" he called to her. "More coffee?"

It took her a second, but she replied, "Oh, yeah. Okay."

Buddy went back to reading his paper, and a few moments later, he sensed Myra at his side. She had a frying pan in her hand and was about to slide more bacon onto his plate. "No, babe, no. I said more _coffee_ ," he told her.

"Right. Sorry." Myra left and returned with the coffee pot. As she poured, Buddy debated whether to ask her why she was so distracted. Charlie had disappeared weeks ago, yes, and he knew that Myra was struggling, but she hadn't been _this_ out of it. Sure, she'd been depressed and angry up to then, but she'd still remembered when to wake him up, how to make breakfast the way he'd liked, to have the newspaper sitting next to his plate when he was out of the shower. Today she'd nearly let him oversleep, and when he asked where the paper was, there was a moment when she looked like she didn't understand what he was talking about.

Buddy sighed and finished off the eggs. _That brother of hers._ When Buddy thought about all the trouble he'd gone to to get Charlie that job, when he thought of how he had to lie through his teeth to Harriet Gunderson about what a swell cat his brother-in-law was—it hacked him. But what truly hacked him was how it was eating his wife up inside, not knowing where her brother went. Buddy didn't admit it to anyone (only to himself), but he found himself hoping that they'd just hurry up and find the guy's body in whatever alley or swamp he'd ended up in so that Myra and his mother-in-law could finally move on.

He looked over at the clock and saw it was time to head out. He wiped his mouth, got up from his chair, and announced, "I'm off! See ya at 5:30, babe."

Myra followed him to the door. "Have a good one," she told him.

Buddy looked back at her. Myra had never been a real looker, he would admit, but she was a good, loyal kid who loved him and took good care of him; that was enough for him. Now he saw—for the first time, really—the toll all this mess had taken on her. She looked pale and dried out, as if everything—water, light, air, joy—had been sucked out of her flesh. The dark circles under her eyes looked so deeply ingrained, they seemed more like tattoos inked under her skin rather than a temporary mark of a bad night's sleep.

"Myra…," Buddy murmured softly.

"Yeah, Buddy?"

"I…" he was about to ask what was eating her, but it was a stupid question to ask. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Try to rest yourself today, huh?"

"Yeah. I'll try."

"Promise?"

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "Yeah, I promise."

After Buddy left, Myra locked the door carefully behind her and tried to think of what to do with herself. It was only eight o'clock; the woman who'd called several hours earlier—Melissa was her name—agreed to visit Myra at ten. She had to kill another two hours, somehow.

Myra started to clean up the kitchen, as she typically would, but stopped. She was so distracted she tried to clean her frying pan with the bacon still in it, and nearly put the coffee grounds down the drain instead of in the trash can. Besides this, her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid she'd break a dish. Or perhaps more.

She gave it up, deciding instead to sit on the couch in the living room and watch television. _The Today Show_ was on, and usually she found Hugh Downs' down-to-earth good looks and easygoing manner soothing, but not that morning. She couldn't focus on what she was watching; instead, she kept wondering if she'd made an enormous mistake, inviting a complete stranger who called her out of the blue, in the middle of the night, to her house. What if this woman—who claimed she knew where Charlie was and could help—was actually part of some gang who'd kidnapped him in the first place? What if, instead of her, it was a bunch of hoods who showed up at her door, with guns, demanding money? Myra hadn't told Buddy about the call at all, or that someone was coming today. At least the woman hadn't told her to keep it a secret—but then again, she hadn't really told Myra much at all.

"What's happened to your brother—what I think has happened to him, at least—it's too long and complicated to discuss over the phone. We need to speak in person," Melissa Rye had told her.

"Should we—should I meet you somewhere?" Myra had asked.

"I can come to you. We need to begin as soon as possible. I can be there as early as seven if you want."

"No! No, I'm sorry, but I have to get my husband ready and out to work at that time."

"Very well. Ten?"

And so it was ten they agreed upon. And Myra fretted that perhaps she should have demanded credentials or something before agreeing to this. But this woman had given her what no one else—not the doctors, not her family, not even the police—had been able to give her: hope that she could get her brother back. Myra decided, in very much a split second, that she was willing to take a chance for that hope.

Myra's mind must have eventually shut down and she fell asleep for a while, because the next thing she knew, there was a knock on her door. Her eyes flew open and once again, her heart was pounding in her ears like it had a few hours earlier. A quick glance at the clock on the mantle indicated that it was ten on the nose. Jumping to her feet, Myra smoothed her dress and her hair, walked to the door, and put her hand to the wood panel. "Who is it?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded steady.

"Mrs. Russell, it's Melissa Rye. May I come in, please?"

Myra took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and unlocked the door. She came face to face with a young woman, who appeared to be a few years younger than herself. This somewhat surprised Myra, because Melissa Rye's calm, brisk demeanor on the phone had led her to believe that the girl was older. She was slim, petite, and quite pretty, in an exotic, native sort of way. She had long, black hair that was pulled back in a half-ponytail, while the rest cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her skin was a light tan, as though she'd lived in the tropics for most of her life, and her eyes were a warm shade of brown with glints of auburn.

The corners of Melissa Rye's lips turned upwards in a good-natured, but not happy smile. "Good day, Mrs. Russell."

It took Myra a few seconds to realize she was staring. "Oh, please come in!"

Myra watched the girl as she entered her home. Melissa Rye's clothes were strange—fashionable, but strange. She wore a long, black leather coat, a crisp, fitted, white button down shirt, a red full skirt that came down just after her knees, and tall, black, high-heeled boots. Myra was somewhat reminded of Paris and London models she'd seen occasionally in fashion magazines: the same confident, purposeful walk, the same humorless, determined facial expression. The girl sat herself down on the sofa, her posture so straight and poised that the nuns that taught at Myra's grammar school would have been moved to speechlessness. Myra now noticed that the only jewelry her guest wore were long, silver earrings in the shape of crescent moons. She watched them sway gently as she sat across from her guest.

"Cigarette?" Myra held out a fresh pack.

"No, thank you. I never smoke."

"Oh." Myra found this somewhat strange. "Well, then. May I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea, perhaps?"

"No, that's all right. Thank you. I think we should get down to discussing the issue of your brother's disappearance."

"Yes, of course." Myra actually found the girl's directness comforting. She seemed very professional and businesslike, in spite of her youth and her style of dress. It alleviated some of her doubts that she'd done the wrong thing. Myra took a seat on the chair that stood perpendicular to the couch.

Melissa Rye leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what happened to Charlie, up to his disappearance?"

Myra sighed. "Very well." And so she explained to Melissa Rye how her older brother had always been a little shy and withdrawn, perhaps a little too lonely, but right before his disappearance, it had seemed to get much worse. Myra told the girl how Charlie had been fired from his job, how he'd become obsessed with going to the museum to look at a dollhouse, and how ultimately they'd had to have him committed when he vandalized the display. She also told her that Charlie had duped them, making them all believe that he was "cured" and then slipped out of the house when no one was watching.

Melissa Rye had listened quietly and attentively throughout Myra's story, but Myra hadn't missed the sharp look that appeared on her guest's face when she mentioned the dollhouse. "And the doctor assured us that Charlie was hiding somewhere in the museum, because he wanted to see that doll he was nuts over. But we searched the whole place, top to bottom, and we didn't find him. And that's it. There's been no trace of him since," Myra concluded.

Melissa Rye nodded gravely. "I see. I had a feeling—I'm sure I already knew—but hearing your story helped confirm it. I know what happened to him."

Myra's eyes widened with hope. "Well?"

The girl took a deep breath. "Charlie's been taken—kidnapped, I guess is the more exact term—by an entity I've been tracking for most of my adult life."

"An entity?"

"You see, Mrs. Russell…there are realms, or dimensions, that exist alongside of ours. The beings that inhabit one particular dimension feed on the energy we create in order to live. In order to feed on us, they have to bring us—our kind—into their dimension, so they lure us in. From what you told me, it sounds like one of these entities used the dollhouse to trap Charlie and pull him out of our world and into theirs."

Myra stared at the girl for a moment, then suddenly jumped to her feet. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Rye. This has been a mistake." She walked quickly to the door and opened it. "Please leave now."

Melissa Rye stood up. "I realize that what I've said sounds incredible, but I assure you…"

"You need help. Now get out, before I call the police."

"Mrs. Russell, you need to listen to me. You need to believe me!" Melissa Rye began to walk towards her.

Myra walked away from the door, sidestepping the girl, and went to the phone. She removed the handset and was just about to dial when she heard the girl say, "This morning, your husband asked for coffee and you brought him bacon."

Myra slowly brought the phone away from face and to her side, ignoring the mindless little hum of the dialtone. She stared at the girl, open-mouthed. "What—wait. How could you have known that?"

Melissa Rye ignored this question. "You were so nervous about meeting me that you started pouring soap and water in the pan, and there were still three strips of bacon in it. You think you threw the bacon away, but you left it lying on the counter!"

"This. Is. Nuts. Absolute nuts!" Myra cried out.

"Go look. Go look, Myra!" Melissa Rye demanded.

Myra was horrified, but somehow she managed to get her legs moving toward the kitchen. She peered in, very slowly and carefully. Right there, on her bright yellow counter, lay three pieces of cold bacon in a pool of soapy grease.

Myra gripped the wall for support, then turned and looked at the girl, who looked back at her with overflowing sympathy. "Sit down, Mrs. Russell," Melissa Rye told her gently. "I'll shut the door and put the phone back on the cradle…and I think _I_ should make _you_ a cup of tea."


	3. Chapter 3

The seats in the tiny theatre were starting to fill rapidly, and it made Charlie nervous. He hated crowds; they reminded him too much of the world he came from. The jostling, the noise, the heat of multiple bodies moving about: it was just too much. But Alice wanted to go; she wanted them to have an "outing" together, apart from her parents, just the two of them. And Charlie could deny her nothing.

The fact that Alice had left his side to speak with some friends of her parents only made the situation worse. He felt calmer, more confident when she was with him. Now he struggled to sit peacefully and in a dignified manner as more and more people clustered about him. Just a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and Alice would be back by his side, everyone would settle down, the theatre would grow wonderfully dark and quiet, and the play would begin. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He thought of something—was it a memory? Something that happened recently? It was a blur. He vaguely recalled getting out of bed and…seeing something? But what did he see? Or maybe, the question was, what was he not supposed to see?

"Nice night for a play."

Charlie's eyes flew open. He turned to the sound of the voice. Sitting next to him was a dark, slim young woman, dressed in a deep red gown. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun with long tendrils curling about her face, and she wore silver earrings in the shape of stars. Charlie would have realized how beautiful she was if not for the fact that she'd startled him—and the intense, mirthless look in her brown eyes continued to unnerve him.

Where had she come from? He hadn't noticed her approach and sit down. Something told him he shouldn't speak to her. Nevertheless, he didn't want to be rude, so he turned away and mumbled a simple, "Yes."

The girl shifted in her seat so she was looking forward. "And it's such an unusual choice of material."

Charlie was curious. "What do you mean?"

"You know what the performance is tonight, don't you? _Oedipus Rex_? Not exactly the most lighthearted of stories." The girl didn't speak like the people of this world. She sounded more like people Charlie used to know.

"If you're not pleased with the play, why are you here?" Charlie hadn't meant to sound so prickly, but he actually was curious.

"Oh, it's not that I'm not pleased. Quite the opposite. I have a great appreciation for the deeper message of the play."

"Deeper message?"

The girl turned her grim, lovely eyes to him. "That no matter what you do, the truth always comes out. It's inescapable."

Charlie swallowed without realizing it. The girl smirked and looked back towards the curtains. "I know you tried to escape, Charlie. But it didn't work. You know you don't belong here, don't you?"

"I…what?" He was starting to feel cold, in spite of feeling overheated just a moment ago. It felt like ice needles pricking the back of his head.

The girl leaned forward just slightly. "I said, you don't belong here, Charlie. You're in danger. Try to remember—try to think of the things that happened. It's not right here."

Before he could try to answer, Alice had returned. "Charlie?" she asked, frowning.

He stood immediately. "Alice! I—I—"

The strange girl stood up too. "Hello… _Alice_ ," she said Charlie's fiancée's name so strangely. "Good to see you again. You've aged very well."

Alice's full lips thinned, and her eyes were burning. Charlie was frightened for a moment. He'd never seen his love in such a rage. "Charlie," she said in a quiet, edgy voice, "Let us sit over there, with my friends."

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Please, Charlie." Alice's voice seemed to go down an octave. "Let us go."

Charlie obeyed his fiancée's request. As he got to the end of the aisle, he looked back to see the strange girl being flanked by the theatre's ushers in order to force her exit. "Remember, Charlie!" she cried out. "You're being lied to! Don't let them use you! Look for the truth!"

Alice tugged on his arm. "Come, Charlie. Please."

They sat down at the far end of the theatre, and the play started shortly after that. Charlie barely paid attention to the production, instead thinking of the strange girl and what she'd told him. When intermission came and everyone stood, Charlie clasped Alice's hand. "Please, dear," he told her. "We must talk."

They found a remote corner of the mezzanine. Alice crossed her arms and stared out of the window. Charlie stood a few feet away, waiting for her to explain. Finally she sighed and said, "Charlie, I regret that that girl accosted you in that manner."

"Who is she, Alice?"

Alice turned to look at him, shaking her head. "She has been employed by Edgar Breedlove to plant doubts in your mind and separate us. And Father believes that this will not be the first nor last attempt. He refuses to abandon his goal." She clasped his arms. "Charlie, I beg of you—you cannot listen to the lies that you're told. If I were to lose you, I—I—don't know what I'd…"

"Shh." Charlie pressed her to his heart, gently stroking her hair. "I love you, Alice. Nothing can change that. Nothing will ever part us. I swear."

He continued to hold her, as he turned to look out the window, watching the rain fall, and trying to look past the gray curtain of darkness.

* * *

Myra lit her third cigarette in fifteen minutes, puffed it furiously, then put it out with a shaky hand. She ignored the several barely half-smoked sticks that sat in the ash tray and got up again to pace. She didn't know what to do with herself. Every time she thought of what happened that day—every time she tried to make sense of it—her heart became like a fluttering bird, jumping wildly in her chest.

She had to calm down. Buddy would be home soon, and Myra couldn't afford to make him suspicious. Finally she lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes, allowing herself to recall her time with Melissa Rye from as much of an objective point of view as she could.

After Melissa convinced Myra not to call the police and made her a cup of tea, the brunette stranger sat with Myra while she tried to explain the situation.

"Think of these beings like fishermen, and we're the fish. The world we inhabit is so different from theirs that it would be impossible for them to come through completely—after all, a fisherman can't breathe underwater. So what do they do? They cast a fishing net as wide as possible, with bait that's tailored to be as attractive as possible. Then they lie in wait until their prey comes along, and they reel it in."

"So what are you saying?" Myra asked, her eyes widening. "You're saying these…things…want to eat Charlie?"

"Oh, no. Not his flesh. They—well, probably just one—wants to consume his energy. His life force."

Myra shook her head and reached for her pack of cigarettes. "This is too much. I can't take it."

"Mrs. Russell, please. I know it's hard to believe, but it's true! You said so yourself—you and your family had tracked Charlie to the museum, and he disappeared without a trace. Even if he hadn't been there—even if he'd gone somewhere else—don't you think you would have heard from him, or _about_ him, by now?"

"But if this…thing wants to feed off of Charlie, isn't it too late? He's been gone for weeks—months!"

"No. It's one of the few advantages we have: time moves differently in their space. Months and months can go by here, but only a few hours or days will have passed there. Besides, they don't have to kill Charlie right away. They can feed off of him…little by little. Much more efficient that way."

Myra was stunned by the girl's clinical attitude. "What are they doing to him?" When Melissa hesitated, Myra cried, "Tell me!"

The girl took a deep breath before she told her. "As I said, they're feeding off of his life force. They're providing him certain…sensations that he's finding pleasurable and exciting. They're stimulating certain areas in his brain to trigger his emotions, because that's how humans express their life force—through feelings. The stronger and deeper the emotion, the greater the burst of energy."

Myra was silent for a while, processing this. "Does he—does Charlie know what's happening? Does he know what they're doing to him?"

"No. At least, I doubt that he does. If he knew the true nature of the danger he was in, he'd be horrified. Another reason to feed off of him slowly—to keep him pacified."

Myra stood up. "So what can we do? How do we get to him?"

Melissa Rye stood up as well. "We go to the source. To where the creature ripped a hole in our universe. If the hole hasn't been patched, maybe I can get in."

Naturally, the two women went to the place where the whole mess started. The museum was quiet at that hour; it was a weekday in the late morning, so most of the usual patronage were at school and work. When they got in, Myra started to explain where the dollhouse was located, only to find it was unnecessary. Melissa Rye started walking the halls with the sort of confidence and motivation that a seasoned employee might have.

"How do you know where you're going?" Myra asked as she rushed to keep up with her.

"Because I can feel it," was the reply.

Sure enough, Melissa arrived right in front of the replica of the 19th century townhouse. She shuddered, then made a noise of disgust, then started making a framing motion with her hands in front of it. "Ms. Rye?" Myra asked with a frown. "Is—is this it?"

"Oh yes, it is. I can feel the entrance. Like fire." Quickly the girl looked up and looked around. "Good. No one around."

Myra also looked around. "So what do we do – break open the thing or something?"

Melissa shook her head. "No. I'm going in. Give me ten minutes. If I'm not back by then, just go home and wait for me."

"Huh? You kiddin?"

"Just stand back and don't get close." Melissa held up her hands in front of the dollhouse, and to Myra's surprise, they started to glow. Then she was shrinking—or somehow, the perspective changed, and she appeared to be walking far away into the distance. She seemed to approach the tiny front door of the house, opened it, and walked in. Then she was gone.

Myra didn't know how long she just stood there, mouth agape, trying to process what she saw. Eventually she heard someone say, "Ma'am? Are you all right, Ma'am?"

Slowly she turned and looked into the concerned eyes of the security guard. "Y-y-yes. Um…what time is it?"

"It's noon, Ma'am."

It had been more than ten minutes—quite a bit more. Myra did what Melissa Rye had instructed and went home.

It had been four hours, and the girl hadn't come back. Myra didn't know what to do. She covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. "What if this is all a dream?" she wondered out loud. "What if I'm going crazy?"

A few minutes afterwards, the phone rang. Feeling her heart fluttering again, she stood with shaking legs and walked over to the end table to answer.

"Mrs. Russell?"

It was the girl. Myra felt herself both relax and tense in alternating bursts. "Ms. Rye. Where…um…that is…are you back at the museum?"

"No, I'm in—" the girl said something unintelligible.

"What?"

"Wu-gui-shian. It's a District in Guangdong." When Myra didn't respond, Melissa Rye added, "In China."

"China! How the blazes did you get there?"

"I was thrown out of the realm—the fishnet—once I was discovered. The doorway to the dollhouse was sealed off and I was ejected into a different point in our space; in this case, in China."

Myra could feel a headache beginning to penetrate the outer layers of her forehead. "I don't think I know what that means, but I take it you didn't find Charlie?"

"Oh no—I found him and talked to him."

"You did!" Myra nearly cried in relief. "Is he all right? Did they hurt him?"

"He's all right—for now. I can tell they've already started draining him. But they've got him snowed badly. He thinks he's living some sort of idyllic Victorian life with a loving fiancée."

"Well, what did you say to him? What did he say?" Melissa Rye didn't answer.

"Hello!" Myra demanded.

"Sorry. I can't stay on the phone. I need to start finding my way back to the states. And it's going to take me a while."

"Well, when can you get back here?"

"Most likely I'll be back there by this time tomorrow. Can I stop by in the evening?"

"The evening? Oh no—I'm sorry, but that won't work. My husband will be home…"

"No, he won't."

"What?"

"Just trust me. I'll be there around eight pm. I'll tell you everything I found out, and we'll make a new plan." With that, Melissa Rye hung up.

Myra put the phone down and just stood in the living room for a few moments, trying to bring herself to think but just feeling too overwhelmed to do it. It took a while to get the gears going.

 _Dinner._ That's what first came to mind. She had to make Buddy dinner.

She started pulling things out of the refrigerator methodically, mechanically, as though she were a robot. She salted and peppered the chicken, then fried it in oil. Boiled the rice and added butter. Opened up the can of peas and heated them. Everything was complete just as Buddy was turning the key in the door.

"Myra! Babe, I'm home!" Buddy called out. From in the kitchen, Myra took a deep breath and reminded herself that she couldn't let him get suspicious.

She emerged, holding a plate of dinner for him. "Hey there." She put the plate down and turned her face to him so he could kiss her cheek.

Buddy looked into her eyes and frowned. "Did you rest like I told you to?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got some rest. Here, dinner's ready. Eat up."

He did as she asked. Then he stopped and looked up. "Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Ain't you gonna eat?"

"Oh right—yeah, I'll go get my plate."

Myra forced herself to eat her dinner, not feeling like it at all, but knowing that she had to appear at least mostly normal if she wanted him to leave her alone and let her do what needed to be done. A few minutes into dinner, Buddy sighed and said, "Myra? Joe and some of the boys down at the plant are havin' a little retirement party for Danny, the old foreman, tomorrow night. I told them I'd be there. I hope that's okay with you?"

"So you won't be home tomorrow evening?"

"Oh, I'll be back later—it won't be real long, I promise." Buddy looked nervous. "I mean, you can come if you want—or uh, you could have your mother over or something…"

"Right. That's fine." Myra suddenly remembered what Melissa Rye told her. _How had she known?_

"So…you're gonna invite your ma? Or go over there?"

"Yeah, I'll figure it out."

As they finished their meal, Myra let herself mull over everything she now knew. Charlie was alive—he was in danger, but he was alive. And he was trapped in a place that she couldn't get to. As far as Myra knew, there was only one person who could help him: that strange girl, Melissa Rye.

Myra took her last bite of chicken and put all her hopes on the anticipation of the following night, when the girl would return, and they could plan a new plan of rescue.


End file.
